You Can Take the Girl Outta New Yawk

I consider myself a good traveler. Whenever I venture forth into exotic lands, I try to learn at least a little of the language, enough to say "hello," "thank you," and "please" at the very least. And I always try to remember that "Dorothy isn’t in Kansas anymore," or in my geographic parlance, ‘Hey Doorahthee, not fuh nuthin but, you ain’t in New Yawk any mawh.” So when I went to France, I learned to say "bonjour," "merci," and "un pain au chocolat s'il vous plaît" like a native. In Italy, I schooled myself in when to use "buongiorno," "buona sera," or "buona note," and would never order a cappuccino after noon. And should I find myself in a biergarten in Bremen, "ein Bier und eine Brezel mit Senf bitte" rolls trippingly off my tongue (if anything in German could roll trippingly anywhere.) Of course, those are the easy ones, what with Rosetta Stone, Berlitz, and Google translate at virtual fingertips. But what about when traveling to lands were a driver’s license is the only ID necessary?